Dancing Mad, Dancing Holy

These feet are always ablaze
agog to burn in a slow dance
but the pole dancing stars
titillates a fire break
and these feet grinded to its halt

Sterile and sedentary,
I still amass a hill of velocity
behind obduracy and secrecy
my voraciousness is whet
and my quiescence succumbed
into squalor and hysteria
but loneliness overcomes
this madhouse's tempo

The crest of the wave looms
at its frailest, highest peak
but the road narrows down
and the music slowly fades
with the lucid passing states
I danced alone and the macabre
is not an auspicious company

The lasso is gone but the fire
is still pouncing on the furnace
like ludicrous, nacreous marbles
of lustrous amber and ebony
and the shadows are still made
prancing before my escritoire
even when the lamp is out -
our ephemeral strings born
these eternal puppets of the night

I lick the burning skin
and immersed in this agony
dancing, hurting and benumbing
standing between the frontier
of mad and holy.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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